As a blind person, I feel a significant amount of disconnect from my own body. I feel connected to my body in a physical sense, but there is a void where all the information I’m supposed to have is painfully absent. When I climb or skate or stretch I relish the pull in my muscles, the strength in my limbs, how I can move through space like this.
Yet my abstract body, the way my body is tied to my sense of self, is infinitely more complicated. What is a person without a physical body? I am not, of course, speaking about the ability to use that body, which does not make you more or less of a person, but the existence of such a body at all. And what does it mean to only know a small part of yourself? I have never seen my face. I have never, and will never be able to stand in front of a mirror and take in every minute detail that makes my face my own. I have never considered the exact angle of my eyes or shape of my mouth. I have never watched my hair fall over my shoulders or seen the way my clothes lie against my skin.
You might have. If you have met me, or seen photos of me, you know a part of me more than I know it myself. You have some knowledge, some ownership over that information, and yet I, the person inside this body, do not.
You may question my use of the word “ownership.” Let me explain. I know my hair colour because somebody told me. I know that my skin is pale and my eyes are deep set because somebody told me. I know that sighted people can’t decide what colour my eyes are, which means I don’t know. I don’t get to look at my face and make my own observation. I don’t get to say “I think these people are right,” because all I have are conflicting statements and absolutely nothing of my own. Every single thing I know about my own body is filtered through the eyes and biases of another person. What do they tell me? What do they choose not to tell me? How can I ever feel truly connected to myself?
I don’t know how I look in relation to others. People tell me I’m lucky. That I won’t compare myself in that case. They say that nobody views themselves accurately anyway. But those people don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if I’d have a warped sense of self if I could see myself, because at least I’d have a sense of self at all. The idea that because I don’t see myself I mustn’t compare myself to others is laughable. My perception of my body is so heavily informed by everyone else, I consume every tiny negative comment. And in my mind, everyone else is beautiful. So no, I don’t get to look in the mirror and think that I’m ugly, but who ever said we needed a mirror in order to hate ourselves?
Everyone feels sorry for me, assuming that I must be sad that I don’t get to see the faces of my family. Surely I must grieve, not knowing what they look like. But nobody understands that there is only one person I would want to see, only one face, one body to have entire ownership of. My own.
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Hi, Never thought about this concept. As fellow blind person I made a conscious decision about how I wanted my appearance to be. I am a artist and did not wont to be known as the blind wood worker/artist. So built a look for myself that was a stereo typical image of a artist. Grew a long beard always ware bib overalls and plaid flannel shirts. I can tel you from my own experience, that it seamed to make a difference. People started just referring to me as the artist. And not a blind artist/wood worker. An it may of worked or I just wont to think it did. Thanks for making me think about this.
This is very powerful, thank you for sharing!